Poetically Broken
by stironniganisreal
Summary: "She's spent a year throwing hexes and refusing to serve detentions. She's spent a year reassuring kids that it will be okay and recklessly shouting at the Death Eaters' kids. She's spent a year uplifting spirits and trying to squash her own emotions into a tiny box. Now, it's finished. It's over." - Ginny Weasley's mental recovery following the Battle of Hogwarts


**Okay, so I'm a fanatic for Hinny trash ... but it's just my luck that this fandom is hopping mad for Drarry. Not that there's anything wrong with Drarry, but I really wanted a particular fic that I thought would be fairly popular but actually isn't ... so I wrote it myself.**

 **Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling**

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She's spent a year throwing hexes and refusing to serve detentions. She's spent a year reassuring kids that it will be okay and recklessly shouting at the Death Eaters' kids. She's spent a year uplifting spirits and trying to squash her own emotions into a tiny box.

Now, it's finished. It's over. Tom Riddle's body no longer hums with life and his followers are being hounded after by the remainders of the Ministry that had fought Thicknesse's government. And Ginny Weasley stares mindlessly at something she's not even properly focusing on, because it's done but she's still in total disbelief.

 _How can it be over?_ she thought dully. Her mind totally blank and empty. It can't be over, because she's still thin from the months of hunger. She's still suffering nightmares and flashbacks from the Chamber, all those years ago. She can see a stretcher where one twin weeps over another, another where a younger brother demands answers from the unresponsive elder.

Somebody from her family comes to retrieve her, to bring her back home. She's not quite sure who it is. The world is blurry and distorted, as if plunged underwater. "Ginny," says a voice. A male voice that wobbles and bends and twirls. "Stand up, sis. Mum says we're going back home."

Ginny doesn't recognise the voice - not when the world is smearing like the time she touched wet paint and got it everywhere - but she can identify who it is. It is Charlie, because only Charlie calls her 'sis'. Charlie's hand, rough and calloused, takes her own and leads her over to their shell-shocked family.

She recognises Hermione's voice, slightly hysterical. Ginny isn't listening, but she knows that Hermione's worried about _him_. A dull pang blossoms across Ginny's chest as she realises, at some point sooner or later, she will have to face _him_. Then there is the low, calm murmuring of Ron reassuring her. Ginny blinks. For a second, her old self fades through, as she thinks, _Wait, Ron actually knows how to comfort somebody?_

The words drip with sarcasm. Ginny vaguely wonders the last time she was sarcastic. Not Aunt Muriel's - too grim and moody and depressing and secretive to be laughing - and not much at Hogwarts beforehand. They were schoolkids fighting a war. You didn't have much to smile about.

Somebody grips her wrist to Side-Along Apparate. There is the usual unpleasant suction of Apparation that makes Ginny's ears pop and then she is spinning down, stumbling to steady herself, the Burrow clear in the distance.

Bill is smiling sadly. Ginny blinks at the Burrow. By the time her mother insisted she stay with them, Death Eaters had broken into the house and they had fled to Muriel's. She hasn't been there since Christmas.

With a loud pop, Fleur appears and Bill walks up to join his wife as they eagerly approach the house. Ginny trails behind apprehensively: she can't feel any emotions. None. It's like being asleep: heavy but floating, and otherwise impossible to describe.

\

Her room has been vandalised. The wallpaper, curtains and bedspread have been slashed with a knife. A spiderweb of cracked glass has replaced the mirror. Scorch marks litter the floor. The posters are in varying stages, from tatty edges to being torn in half.

Ginny opens the wardrobe. Her clothes are the only things unscathed. It's ironic, considering most of them were bought from the Muggle second-hand store in the village. Then her smile falls. What if the Death Eaters attacked the village?

One of her brothers appears and with a flick of his wand, her room is restored to how she left it. She smiles limply at him; they're all the same, aren't they? All bright red hair and too annoying for their own good. Except now there's five instead of six.

She drags the spare mattress out from under the bed for Hermione, who appears later with bloodshot eyes and nursing a badly bruised leg. Hermione's even thinner than she is, near skeletal. Ginny's bursting to beg for details, but she can't ask Hermione of that. Instead, she gives Hermione a towel and fresh clothes. While the other girl is showering, Ginny makes her bed and leaves a small stack of books beside her mattress.

Neither of them wants to go down for dinner. Hermione transfigurates the last of Ginny's rotted food stash into a Shepherd's pie, but they don't each much between them. By the time Ginny reaches over to turn out her lamp, Hermione is already halfway through one of the books Ginny lent her.

In the darkness, Ginny shifts onto her back, tears prickling at her eyes. She can't bring herself to talk: not to anyone, not until she feels somewhat healed. Because right now, it feels like she is the shattered mirror in the corner of the room.

\

He comes on the third day, thin and ragged-looking, with unshaved stubble on his jaw and favouring his right side. Ginny ignores him, hiding in her room as he and Ron and Hermione discuss Potter-Granger-Weasley stuff.

 _What could they be possibly be talking about, now that Voldemort is dead?_ thinks Ginny, trying to suppress her shudder. It's silly, but she still fears saying Riddle's name. A lot of people still do, she suspects, including her own family.

Hermione comes in a little while later, bringing up two mugs and a large pot of hot chocolate. "He still cares about you," she says as she enchants the pot to pour the hot drink evenly between the two mugs.

Ginny accepts her mug but doesn't say anything, biting her bottom lip. She hasn't spoken at all, not since the curse struck Voldemort's chest. It hurts - how could it not? - to hear that he still has some fragment of emotion concerning her.

"Say something," demands Hermione, clearly irritated at her lack of response.

Ginny shakes her head. She can't: she just can't.

How could she possibly explain the bundle of emotions that twist up every time somebody even mentions Harry Potter? How could she possibly explain that seeing him had ignited that bundle into an explosion of fireworks? How could she possibly explain what it was like to fall for him, so quickly and so deeply, only to have her broken heart thrust back at her? How could she possibly explain that last fiery kiss in the very same room?

Hermione's eyes soften. "Ginny, as the only female in this house that won't either start planning your wedding or give you birth control, I completely understand what it's like to fall in love with a complete numbskull that unintentionally hurts you more than anything."

Ginny nods weakly. It hurts, hurts so badly just thinking about him, hurts because she feels like she's being so selfish. While her family cries over the deaths of Fred and Remus and Tonks, she cries over a boy.

But she raises the mug to her lips and take a deep gulp of hot chocolate, because it's not yet that she can speak.

\

Her funeral dress is laid out across her bed like a flattened invisible person is lying there wearing them. Ginny picks it up: the smooth, silky quality of the fabric suggest that Fleur bought this dress for her - there's no way her own parents could afford such a pretty dress.

She's always wanted to wear a black lace dress, but not on a day such as this. Fred's funeral. Ginny's face crumples as she clutches the dress to her chest, trying not to smear tears or snot all over it.

The new black dress has the feel of a newly bought garment, a feeling Ginny rarely gets. The black flats Hermione lent her pinch her toes. Her hair feels strange, smoothed back into a tight knot.

Somebody hesitantly knocks on the door. A moment later, it creaks open and Hermione scoots in. She looks surprisingly elegant in black - a silk blouse tucked into a pencil skirt and little black flats. A string of pearls rests at her throat.

"Your mum said it's time," says Hermione in a soft, grave voice that doesn't suit her. She hugs Ginny, and her embrace is wiry and exhausted. Hermione's nightmares wake them both up frequently, almost every night; but it's not like Ginny can't sleep anyway.

They descend to the kitchen. Everyone's wearing black, even Luna Lovegood, who must have popped over earlier. Ginny takes a deep breath, avoiding the faces that search her own. They're all worried about her - it's so unlike her to never say a word.

The funeral is held at the family graveyard, a small plot of land several miles from the village one. The Weasleys slowly filter out of the Burrow and towards the place where Fred will lie. Already, there is a mass amount of black-clothed attendees gathering around a coffin, showering it in flowers and tears and WWW merchandise.

Ginny swallows thickly. The coffin, polished pine with gold handles, seems too small to hold Fred. Is her brother really lying inside those thin wood walls? Or is this all some horrible nightmare that is taking far too long to wake up from?

She slides into a chair, staring at the coffin. It's not until the bishop begins his speech that Ginny realises she's sitting directly beside Harry. She panics: there's no time to run, nowhere to go.

She focuses on the coffin and the sermon, hoping that Harry won't try to talk to her afterwards. She just can't face him, in the complete mess that she is.

But it's not him that seeks the other.

The desire for his touch burns so furiously and so brightly that it's intoxicating. Mind capturing. Impossible to repel. As tears stream down her cheeks (Ginny's sure that they are becoming stained with mascara) she hesitantly reaches for his hand. Their knuckles brush. She can't breath as their fingers slowly interlock, lacing together. She hears Harry's sigh of relief.

She holds his hand tightly for the rest of the funeral, and cries on his shoulder afterwards.

\

It's the night before Remus's funeral that Ginny's door is opened in the dead of the night and Ron slips in, his face the whitest that Ginny has ever seen it. He looks close to tears as he creeps down and slides into the mattress on the floor, curling his lanky frame around Hermione's pixie one.

Ginny smiles softly. Who knew that Ronald could be so affectionate?

Ron glances up. He looks ten years older as he meets Ginny's eyes, his own blue ones resembling Albus Dumbledore's compassionate, wise expression, and mouths _You can go up if you want_.

Ginny freezes. Is her thickheaded brother telling her to actually go be in a room, alone, with his best mate? When he was so insistent to keep them apart months ago?

Ron looks irritated as he flicks his head towards the door, then the ceiling. He repeats the same sentence, but in a whisper. When Ginny doesn't move, he rolls his eyes and tucks his head into the tangle of limbs and bodies of he and Hermione.

Ginny considers his offer. The words from the previous year chime in her mind. _Just because I've given my permission doesn't mean I can't withdraw it_. He did 'withdraw' it, though, didn't he? When Ginny confessed their breakup and he sent a furious letter to his best mate. But has he given it back again?

The same irresistible impulse for his touch, the same from Fred's funeral, and Ginny scrambles out of bed. As she leaves the room, she can almost hear Ron's triumphant smirk.

The ascend to Ron's bedroom at the top of the house seems to take forever. Floorboards creak under her bare feet and pale moonlight dances across the walls. The cold air chills her bare skin: she's wearing little more than a baggy t-shirt and cotton shorts.

When she pushes open the door with her toe, she hears the rustle of bedsheets as Harry leans over to face the door. "Ginny?" he says, his voice clouded and husky with emotions. Hopeful, regret, nervousness, and something else. She suspects it's something deep and longing.

She doesn't say anything as she steps into the room. Takes another one. And another. A third one and she's at the foot of his camp bed. Two more and she's standing directly above him. Her heart hammering in her chest, she bends to lift back the covers and crawl in. Harry shifts back to give her more room, his face unreadable. The bed springs squeal ever so softly.

They entangle together, like a unwelcome vine would amongst a rose stem. His arm wind round her waist. Her own rest on his shoulders. Her leg curls over his hip. Her head tucked into the crook of his neck. His thumb gently brushing back the tiny tendrils of hair between her hairline and her skin.

One of them sighs in contentment. Ginny hears him part his lips to say something, consider it, and close his mouth again. They stay like that until the morning, when Ron opens the door.

"Bloody hell. When I say go up there, I don't mean get into bed with him!"

\

They start taking walks, a few days after the last funeral. Harry goes into long, winding explanations of what happened during the last few months. From the Ministry to Malfoy Manor to Gringotts to Ron splinching himself.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" he asks, as they sit side by side under the shade of a leafy willow tree. His words aren't exasperated, like her family members' are, when they beg her to speak. His are calm and patient, because even though she's never expressed it, he knows that she's still hurting.

Ginny shakes her head.

Harry smiles patiently. His hand squeezes hers, and Ginny's head falls on his shoulder. They stay like that for ages, perhaps hours. Ginny loses track of time, because she's fallen asleep. Harry wakes her up when the sun is minutes from sinking beneath the horizon. The weight of his jacket is around her shoulders, and smells like wind and sweat and the indescribably smell of Harry.

They walk back slowly. When they stop, bordering the village, Harry bends to tighten the buttons at Ginny's throat, having seen her shiver in the cold. Ginny's breath hitches in her throat at how close they are. They've been closer than that, but not like this. His breath is hot on her cheek. His ebony bangs brush her forehead. She can practically taste him.

His hand falls on her other cheek. His words are tender. "Can I kiss you?"

Ginny hesitates. She wants to - so, so badly - but she just can't. She shakes her head, and pulls away.

\

The nightmares don't grip her for the next week, and Ginny takes this as an omen. A good one. She doesn't see Fred's paper white face and his cold body every time she passes the newly framed picture sitting on the mantelpiece. When Andromeda Tonks brings baby Teddy over and his hair changes colour multiple times, she doesn't break down. Her throat doesn't tighten when she sees Colin's name amongst the list - a list with far too many names - of all the Muggle-borns that died in the past year. The Darkest Year, as it's beginning to be titled.

In fact, when Remus Lupin's portrait is emblazoned across the front cover of the Daily Prophet, with the headline announcing 'A Werewolf That Defied the Dark Influences', a party ensures for several hours.

It is the eighth night of this mental peace - she hasn't spoken yet - that Ginny awakes to a bloodcurdling scream. It's not Hermione (she doesn't scream anymore, only whimpers and cries for Ron) or any other inhabitant in the Burrow. It's herself.

She's still gasping for air as her family floods into her bedroom. She's crying, she realises, as she drags a shaking hand across her cheeks. Ginny's vaguely aware that people are comforting her, but their voices are distant. The world is underwater again. Her mind is overspilling, like when Mum makes cake batter. Too much all at once.

Tiny first-years begging if this is really what school was like. The Carrows striking down the kids with Cruciatus and Imperius Curses. Argus Filch scuttling around carrying manacles and chuckling wickedly. The Death Eaters' sons, who trap girls in corners and give them the choice of a Cruciatus or a violation that is even more unforgiveable. Shoving the younger kids aside. And then all the little kids blow up into tiny fragments, like a dropped china plate. Walking through their ashes is Colin and Fred and Tonks. Their eyes unseeing as they ask her why she lived and they did not.

Ginny throws herself at the nearest person. It's Harry, she realises instantly, but for once she doesn't recoil. Her arms tighten around him. She can practically hear Hermione beaming.

As she buries her head in the crook of his neck, her mum suggests that he take her downstairs for a cup of tea.

\

The hot cup of tea numbs her fingertips. Harry's fetched a handknitted blanket from the sitting room and arranged it around her shoulders. "Hungry?" he asks. When Ginny nods, he moves towards the kitchen.

He returns with strawberries, a block of Honeydukes chocolate and leftover apple sauce. Ginny swallows thickly. How could he have possibly have remembered her favourite foods? She takes a sip of tea, before leaning across the table and delicately plucking a strawberry from the box.

Harry's playing with the end of her plait. Stroking the small tuft of firey hair over and over again. Finally, he asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Ginny hesitates. She doesn't understand the sudden tsunami of nerves. She's been with Harry, alone, in the dead of the night - but that was months ago, lying on the roof of Gryffindor tower, two lovestruck teenagers. But she nods, and starts talking.

For the first ten minutes, her voice is raspy and croaky as she gives the beginning of the explanations. But her voice smooths out, slowly regaining how she formerly sounded. By the time that dawn skims the horizon, she's half-asleep in Harry's arms, their bodies entangled like the thorny branches of a rose bush.

\

Assembling the detailed piece of writing that _The Daily Prophet_ requests takes Ginny far more willpower than she would like to admit. It's not that she's necessarily forgotten things - it's just that they've been buried so deeply in her mind so that it's difficult to arouse them, because arousing the bad memories is agony.

Luna and Neville are with her, gathered around the kitchen table and showering it in paper and sketches and Colin Creevey's photographs that survived the Carrow's plunder. They write sentences together, declaring whether or not it should say that, slowly piecing together the article. They want it to sing with sorrow and pain and lost innocence, not just some kids playing a few pranks.

It takes several days.

By the time it has all been neatly bundled up and owled to the _Prophet_ , Ginny is exhausted, but she slumps back into her chair with a satisfied smile. Her mum bustles back into the kitchen, and Harry appears, their hands finding each other like it's the most natural thing in the world. Soon Ron and Hermione descend from a room above, squabbling in their usual fashion.

A smile pulls at her lips, and deep inside her, Ginny welcomes the well-needed peace she's craved for so long. She may have lost a lot, and there may be some parts of her that may never recover ... and the deaths of her brother and friends will leave an irreplaceable place in her heart …

… but she knows everything will be okay.

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 **So, not my best work, if you follow my other stories. But I'd still completely appreciate the reviews! Xxx**


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